


but all the choirs in my head sang no

by staroverlord



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Baggage, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3248444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staroverlord/pseuds/staroverlord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course he's going to fancy the Herald of sodding Andraste. Of course. <em>Good job, Dorian, well done,</em> he tells himself, in a voice that is trying to sound like his father's but that for some reason lands squarely on Alexius'. <em>Your Ancestors would be proud to know you're at least not aiming low in all your disgraceful deviance.</em></p><p>(In which Dorian’s potential lover is currently the most famous man in all Thedas, having grown up in Tevinter makes for some awful emotional baggage, and the mere idea of holding hands in public drives him up every single wall in Skyhold.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the lonely, the ones that seek and find

**Author's Note:**

> This is in response to a kink meme prompt that wanted Dorian's fear of being out with the Inquisitor to get in the way of his desire to have a romantic relationship with him, effectively sabotaging it before it even starts. 
> 
> It's supposed to have three chapters, but Loghain promised he would help King Cailan at Ostagar and we all know how that turned out, so proceed with caution. Also, I should warn you that this is written by a non native speaker with no beta at 2am, so caution with that too.

 

The first time he does _The Thing_ , it's the moment the Inquisitor asks him if Felix and he were together.

Despite the fact that Skyhold's walls still have more holes than Orlesian cheese and the library is positively chilly, he starts to sweat right then and there. His hands shake for a moment, twitching in an aborted gesture and, before he manages to regain his composure, Trevelyan has already noticed something is wrong.

Dorian forces himself to remember that southerners aren't as concerned about who people invite to their beds as Vints are, so there's probably no malice or accusation behind the question, which seems born out of curiosity and perhaps a little pity. He initially intends to answer with a simple ‘no’ - even flirts with the idea of just telling him it's none of his business, which is true no matter how earnest the Inquisitor looks.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is " _Felix and I_? What an odd question."

"Odd?" Trevelyan replies, blinking.

He swallows and changes tracks, jokes about seducing Alexius' son, and eventually relents and answers in the negative- but the Inquisitor must see the tightness around his eyes and deflates just slightly, backing away from the corner Dorian has claimed for himself there.

"I apologize, Dorian. I meant no offense," he says and then, again: "I am sorry for your loss."

Afterwards, he tells himself his refusal to answer at first had been due to grief and what was, all things considered, a quite inappropriate question about a dead man. 

 

Eventually, though, after a considerable amount of whiskey, he decides using Felix's memory to justify his sudden fear and shame would be just as unfair to his friend, accepting and kind as he’d always been to him, so he just grits his teeth and accepts yet another regret.

*

He calls this thing _The Thing,_ an unnamed entity living in the depths of his soul, feeding off his lust and worry. He can imagine the offended sigh Varric would utter if dwarves developed a sudden knack for blood magic and he could peer into his mind. But really, there’s no way for him to put a name to it. The _Shame_? The _Fear_? The _Vintricacies of one Dorian of Minrathous_? All of it sounds droll and overdramatic, and that’s coming from Lord Dorian Pavus, Member of the Circle of Vyrantium, Son of Lord Magister Halward Pavus of Asariel, who would rather build a wall of fire even when a single fireball would do just as well. 

But he doesn’t want to recognize the severity, _nay_ , the existence of the problem, so _The Thing_ it is.  

It keeps happening, of course. And the closer he gets to the Inquisition and its leader, the worse it becomes.

Ah, but as Varric says, maybe it would be best start with some backstory.

* 

So, the facts are these:

 _Fact:_ Appointed emergency First Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle after the start of the Rebellion, Herald of Andraste much to his chagrin, twice slain and twice revived and now head of a world famous organization, Inquisitor Trevelyan is an interesting man, with sharp intelligence and quick wit that he hides beneath a thousand layers of soft spoken diplomacy. He's dashing and understanding, and in possession of a really nice set of striking golden eyes.

(That’s not important.)

 _Fact:_ The Inquisitor always has the look of a man who may not exactly understand what’s happening around him, but damned if he’s going to let that stop him. People flock to him like they think the perpetual confused expression was put there by Andraste herself. And maybe it was. Who knows these days.

(That’s not that important either.)

 _Fact:_ Inquisitor Trevelyan has what Varric likes to call _a bleeding sodding heart_. Crassly put, of course, but true enough. When he's at Skyhold he checks in on everyone, come hell or high water, everyday like clockwork. At first Dorian told himself his visits outside the field were a mere inconvenience for him, being much too immersed in the dusty ancient tomes of Skyhold to be bothered to socialize, but that thought was short-lived - if it was even born at all. 

(Somewhat relevant, but mostly just embarrassing.)

 _Fact:_ Dorian, to his utmost dismay, finds that _adorable_.

(Honestly, that's just plain mortifying.)

 _*_  

With that out of the way, it stands to reason to point out that Dorian is not, nor shall he ever become, a romantic lead in the mystery book Varric is in the process of shitting out. This is not the set up of a romantic comedy or a harlequin romance that Orlesians keep on their bedside tables to spice up those lonely nights. The idea of being involved in a larger-than-life love story is as ludicrous to Dorian as it is depressing - and _unwanted_ , of course, yes, very much so. 

Anyway. _The Thing._

* 

Realizing that he likes the Inquisitor is not really a surprising revelation for Dorian so much as a foretold disappointment - no loud, earth-shattering gasp, worthy of the daftest heroine, but a weary and resigned sigh. Of course he's gonna fancy the _Herald of sodding Andraste_. Of course. _Good job, Dorian, well done,_ he tells himself, in a voice that is trying to sound like his father's but lands squarely on Alexius'. _Your Ancestors would be proud to know you're at least not aiming low in all your disgraceful deviance._  

Ah, but _alas_. Nothing to be done.

Of course, he flirts with him often and shamelessly, because that’s what Dorian _does,_ and he's positive Trevelyan flirts back with undiluted glee. He also does it with Bull. Cassandra. Josephine. Cullen. Vivienne. Varric. For a much talked about occasion, he even flirts with Sera. Dorian can't quite pinpoint if his interest is real or just pure sport, or even if the Inquisitor likes men at all.

 

("What a sweet talker, that one," says Varric once, watching Trevelyan offering Hawke ( _sweet Andraste, the Champion_ ) his hand to help her get on the Inquisition's halla. "I don't think he's ever met someone he's not flirted with. Reminds me of Hawke, during her wild years"

"Her wild years must've been a sight to behold, considering," Dorian says, because Hawke looks positively wild right _now_ , as she leans forward and playfully spreads her red war paint on Trevelyan's scarred cheek with a chuckle.

"Eh," is Varric's eloquent reply. His voice sounds flippant, but he's grinning like Dorian's never seen him do before. Hawke has that effect on him, they've realized. He looks about a decade younger now, with her around, "She's no fun anymore. Has an elf back home with a scarily high body count and killer puppy eyes. She's all flash and no heat now," he points out, glancing at Dorian meaningfully. "Pretty sure our Herald here is cut from the same cloth."

Dorian doesn't get why Varric sounds like he's trying to appease him with that, so he just scoffs and walks away from the stables. 

That's exactly what he's worried about. That the Inquisitor means nothing by it.)

 

So the second time _The Thing_ happens, comes when the aforementioned dilemma has been keeping Dorian restless for days, left bored and frustrated at Skyhold while the Inquisitor dealt with something or other in the Stormcoast. So when the Inquisitor comes back and walks by Dorian's corner while making his ‘ _Hey, I'm back, call off the search party_ ’ stroll around Skyhold, still soaked to the bone due to the stormy night, covered in mud and with a parcel under his arm, Dorian is not in the best of moods to deal with him (the traitorous quickening of heart notwithstanding).

Which is why he's less than proud of the scene he causes, which goes as follows:

Trevelyan drips rainwater and sand all over the library, exchanges greetings with Fiona and the tranquil girl, smiles at him and shoves the soggy parcel in his hands, like an overgrown cat presenting him with a dead mouse. Dorian can't find it in himself to be mean just yet, so he just raises his eyebrows and starts to rip the box open without ceremony.

“This better be good, considering you are pouring half the Stormcoast all over my books,” he says, trying for playful, and it must work because the Inquisitor smiles again and eyes his reaction as the paper falls to the floor.

Inside the box, there is a robe. A blessedly dry, beautiful, obviously expensive mage robe. 

And _The Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste,_ is giving it to him.

_In the middle of the crowded library._

"Do you like it?" Trevelyan asks, raindrops falling from his hair and running down his flushed cheeks, still a little short of breath and so beautiful that Dorian wants to rip the robe apart.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asks, and it comes out snappier than he'd intended, which was quite a lot.

"The meaning?" Trevelyan parrots, confused, his smile faltering a little, the scar on his lip twisting to accommodate the change. "It's a robe."

He can feel people turning around to stare at them, Fiona's eyes staring at the robe with professional curiosity, and his fingers tighten around it (Orlesian, imported, made out of halla leather, magic thrumming like a beating heart in every fiber-).

"I know it's a robe, I have eyes," he snaps again, voice like acid, and before Trevelyan can throw ‘and quite a fetching pair’ back at him, he continues: "Why are you giving this to me?"

Trevelyan looks taken aback for a moment, and then tilts his head to the side like a confused owl.

“Dorian, I've commissioned armor for everyone that travels with me," he says, honestly befuddled. "Well. Vivienne picked hers out and then I paid for it, but that's an exception. Do you not like it?" 

The Inquisitor has taken into account his preference for fire in its enchantments, the color and even the design. It's perfect, of course. He swallows his embarrassment and says as much, as politely as he can after such display, and Trevelyan smiles his damned bright grin and off he goes.

Dorian tries to understand why he wished so hard not to have this mean anything, not to have _anyone_ think this meant anything, when he knew exactly how disappointed he would be to have it confirmed. Tries to understand why all the bravado he showed in Tevinter in the face of prejudice is all but gone now.

He looks for an answer at the bottom of a bottle that night, as he often does. The bottle, of course, holds no answers, but by the time he’s reached end of it he’s forgotten the questions. 

* 

It gets better, for a while, because being together on the battlefield puts Dorian at ease. 

As much as he complains when he’s out and about on Inquisition business (and he complains a lot), he must admit he never feels freer than when he’s freezing his ass off on Emprise du Lion, soaked to the bone on the Stormcoast, or getting undead goo from under his fingernails on the Fallow Mire. He hates the countryside on principle, but being away from prying, distrustful eyes makes all the difference to him. The people the Inquisitor brings along are uncouth, gossipy and more than a little annoying, but Dorian finds himself enjoying their company way more than that of nobles and diplomats of higher birth. As he watches Cole appear and disappear in a poof of magic for no discernible reason other than bothering Cassandra into jumping out of her skin, he thinks that this might be the kind of company Tevinter society would think was befitting of his… _eccentricities_ , and feels strangely okay with that.

And yes, fine. He _likes_ them. He appreciates the familiarity, the absence of petty posturing, the downright vicious arguments and fights. The bond idiots apparently form when they’ve bled on each other often enough gives him a sense of belonging he thought he’d forsaken long ago.

Dorian scoffs at the thought. How disgusting, how very _southern_.

Trevelyan seems to know exactly what kind of people to bring together, too. He suspects Cullen wants the Inquisitor to surround himself with the necessary fighters to form a strategically sound group, but Trevelyan juggles temperaments just as much as abilities. More often than not they look like a company of bickering midwives, but the chosen teams always end up working surprisingly well together. 

Which is why bringing Iron Bull along when Dorian’s there seems a bit of a misstep.

“Put on a shirt, you’ll poke someone’s eye out!” he finally snaps at the shirtless qunari as they prepare to make camp on the Frostback Mountains, when the sun is about to disappear completely on the horizon, the air is colder than the winter in the Black City itself and Dorian’s fingers are about to succumb to frostbite .

Iron Bull barks out a laugh so loud that it startles Cole into poofing out of existence again, like a remarkably cowardly ghost. Their leader is staring distractedly at the tent he just set up, and almost faceplants into the snow when Bull tries to catch his attention by patting him on the back.

“Hey, Boss, the ‘Vint’s been looking at the _goods_!”

“I can’t not look,” Dorian bites back, annoyed, some heat creeping up his cold cheeks due to embarrassment. “I might lose an eye if I’m not careful!" 

“And I bet he _likes_ them!”

At this point, they’re so tired they’re fighting just to stay awake. Trevelyan seems to know that, and he just chuckles to himself when he regains his balance, shooting Dorian and Bull a bemused glance. He limps a little when he walks, which he only does when he’s downright exhausted, and when did Dorian start noticing such little things?

When it looks like the Inquisitor doesn’t have a strong stance on qunari shirtlessness, Dorian lets himself fall tiredly on a damp log by the campfire, thoughtfully protected with magic from the biting wind, away from where Bull, Varric, and Cassandra sit (he’s given up trying to track Cole’s whereabouts - he’s learned to live with the sensation of someone looking over his shoulder and into his head, isn’t that a cheery thought).

He does that, sometimes. Sitting all by himself after a long day of running around sealing rifts and helping refugees, like he’s sulking. Trevelyan always notices, and he always comes to talk. It toes the line between smart and pathetic, but there is a time and place for pride and the fight for the Inquisitor’s attention is not it.

True to form, when everyone’s set up, requisition reports checked and maps drawn, the Inquisitor sits beside Dorian, opposite from the rest of their group.

“It’s obvious you’ve brought me along to ogle. Maybe Varric and Cassandra too,” Dorian says slyly, as the Inquisitor tries to find a comfortable position on the uneven ground. “I don’t understand why you’ve brought _him_.”

Iron Bull’s head comes up, like he knows Dorian’s talking about him even though he’s sitting way too far to hear it, and has the gall to _wink_ at him over the fire. Dorian pretends to shudder, and Bull smirks at him again.

“For some reason, I thought you’d be more concerned about the spirit with the quick daggers,” Trevelyan replies, good-naturedly, with silent laughter in his voice, as he handles Dorian a flask of ale. He likes Cole, perhaps more than he should. Dorian doesn’t find it endearing. He most definitively does not.

“Why would I? Cole’s _hat_ offends me more than Cole does.”

The Inquisitor laughs out loud now, corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth. Dorian finds himself smiling back, the thrill of making Trevelyan laugh still worth every joke that falls flat, before he averts his eyes again and drinks from the flask. It won’t do to stare open-mouthed and starry eyed at their boss, because Varric may pretend not to see but his eyes are always open and looking for fodder for his stories, and wouldn't that be a hoot. The wind whistles so loudly that he can’t hear the conversation the rest are having on the other side of the fire, but it looks very funny and mostly at Dorian’s expense, so he's not taking his chances.

He’s about to make the fire dance dangerously so they stop doing whatever they’re doing when Trevelyan speaks so softly and suddenly that for a moment Dorian thinks he’s imagined it.

“I hate the cold. And I hate this place,” Trevelyan confesses, voice still light enough, but with a quiet seriousness to it. “So I bring warm people with me, to help me forget.”

Dorian turns to look at Trevelyan, speechless for a moment. He’s smiling, almost ruefully, and he diverts his gaze to his gloved hand, the one bearing the mark. With a start, Dorian notices it’s trembling hard, almost violently. It isn’t cold now, not by the fire, and even Dorian with his pitiful resistance to Fereldan weather is sitting comfortably beside it. For a moment he considers reaching for it, asking if it’s the mark that causes this, if there’s a rift nearby, but then…

He feels a lump in his throat when he remembers the attack on Haven, the state Trevelyan was in when they finally found him; half frozen, exhausted, lips purple and limbs about to fall off. This, this thing he’s seeing is the remnant of that experience, the aftershocks of the miracle that kept the Inquisition alive.

He realizes, then, and he isn’t seeing it. Trevelyan is _letting him see._

For a moment, he feels both proud and terrified. Trevelyan is a deeply private man, Dorian knows that much. He appears forthcoming and open at first glance, easy smile and easy words for everyone, but he has a true gift for saying a lot without actually saying anything at all. But this? This is as clear as it gets. Trevelyan is showing something he is sure he hasn’t shown anyone else, a trust he doesn't feel he deserves. A weakness of the mighty Inquisitor, offered up to him, a Tevinter Altus, on a silver platter. A secret ripe for the taking. A promise of answers if he dares ask the questions. 

It’s… very intimate.

Dorian feels his cheeks heating up, and hopes his face is too red due to the cold to tell any other tales.

“That sounds like something Cole would say,” he says instead, deflecting, trying to ignore the heaviness of the confession.

He regrets it the moment he says it. Dorian feels the moment snap, the way the intimacy doesn’t bend but breaks. Trevelyan smiles crookedly in response, eyes tight. He wordlessly tucks his shaking hand beneath his fur cape and breaks eye contact, glancing again at Bull and Varric, who are still gossiping like a very mismatched pair of old hags, while Cassandra cleans her sword distractedly. Time altering magic sounds like a tempting idea right then, and with a creeping shame he brings the flask to his lips again, just to find something to do with his hands.

"I've also kissed Iron Bull, so I figured I’d bring him along to ogle too," the Inquisitor blurts out with forced levity, shifting gears so abruptly it leaves Dorian reeling.

Dorian coughs into his flask, precious ale spilling all over the frozen soil. Trevelyan lets out an awkward but amused chuckle, and pats his back distractedly, a bashful smile again on his lips.

“You _what_?” he chokes out when his breathing’s calmed down.

"Varric didn't tell you? Apparently he gets all worked up about killing dragons. Remember the one we found in the Hinterlands?” Trevelyan says, and a shudder, caused by either the cold or the memory, goes through his body. “Apparently, I stole the killing blow from him. Drove my staff through his eye when he was down because I was _not_ waiting patiently for Bull to stand up and do it himself. He found it very sexy and planted one on me."

“Why?” Dorian croaks.

“What do you mean why? It was a dragon! Time was somewhat of essence.”

"No, I mean…” _Why did you let him? Why are you telling me?_ He trails off, shakes his head. “How was it? Like kissing rough leather, I imagine" Dorian laughs.

His laughter stops rather abruptly when he sees Trevelyan’s thoughtful face. His eyes are focused on Bull’s laughing form right across the fire.

"It was very nice, to be quite honest," he confesses, pondering the answer as if Dorian had asked about arcane magic and not about kissing qunaris with very inappropriate thoughts about living dragons. "He was very gentle. Skilled. Quite a prize, really. He apologized like crazy later, it was the funniest thing."

"Interested in riding the Bull?" he asks, going for levity but falling flat on vacant.

Trevelyan shrugs.

"I don't know. He calls me boss. That would make it a tad uncomfortable,” he says, golden eyes warm as the fire, and smiles at him like they’re sharing a private joke. “But a man can dream." 

The Inquisitor eventually stands up with a grimace, favoring his left leg, his hand shaking still, and walks into his tent.

Dorian offers to take first watch and sits alone by the fire until it’s nothing but embers, tucking what he knows is the burn of jealousy close to his freezing chest.

He stops keeping count after the third time.

*

Full disclosure: Dorian hadn’t thought much of the Inquisitor during that first meeting.

Yes, he knows. Irony, thy name is Dorian Pavus.

It wasn’t that he _disliked_ him: Trevelyan was handsome, sure, with pleasing features, broad shoulders and a collection of intriguing scars. But he was too discreet, too soft-spoken and calm, as if he moved at a different pace than the world around him. A fine specimen, but ultimately plain and boring, as most southerners were known to be.

Then he was stuck in a nightmarish hell with him, and Dorian had seen the steel beneath the gentle facade and what was the darkest, most inappropriate joke repertoire he had ever had the (dis)pleasure of hearing. And just like that, Dorian’s attention had been gotten. After seeing the fool bring a mountain down on his head and come back to the land of the living, stumbling and feverish and laughing like a maniac, his interest had skyrocketed and it hadn’t stopped growing ever since.

The more they fight together, the more Inquisitor opens up to him and the rest of their companions, and Dorian is careful not to screw it up this time. It isn’t long after their arrival at Skyhold when he discovers that what he thought was an incredible talent for diplomacy is actually a combination of a good Wicked Grace face, a gentle lying voice and the purest, coldest indifference. When Trevelyan doesn’t particularly like what he’s hearing, he smiles and nods and then does the exact opposite he’d made the other person believe he would do.

Even Varric is reluctantly impressed by his talent for bullshit.

"I just heard him promise the Iron Lady he’d reconsider Cole’s presence in the Inquisition at once," he tells him once, over a glass of terrible… _whatever_ they’re serving at the tavern, eyes fixed on the roof with a curious sort of quirk to his lips "and then he grabbed a potted plant from the garden and just took it to Cole’s place upstairs. I think our Inquisitor finds joy in being discreetly passive-aggressive."

Right on cue, Trevelyan walks down the stairs empty-handed, soil on his fingers. He notices them sitting in the corner and when he walks by and stops by their table to greet them, resting a hand on Dorian’s shoulder.

"Our Enchanter is gonna find out eventually that you brought the kid knick-knacks instead of kicking him out," Varric warns with a serious expression on his face but laughter in his voice.

The Inquisitor’s hand tightens playfully on his shoulder, a private thing, and then he walks to the door briskly. 

"The who, the what? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean," he says, with big eyes and slow blinks. “I think I hear Josephine calling from the War Table. Good day, serahs."

"Ah, I like this guy," Varric says right after the Inquisitor disappears through the door, and Dorian has the suspicion he hasn’t said it very often since Cassandra got him into this mess. "He looks all prim and proper, but he’s a little terror."

Dorian privately agrees, and the thought makes him chuckle.

Instead of making Dorian’s infatuation falter, that just makes him all the more fond of him. The man will run himself ragged getting flowers to a dead woman’s grave so his husband can catch a good night’s sleep, but politics and petty debates will make him ignore someone to the best of his ability. It’s hysterical, in a way, that he can pretend to be so good at public relations. Or is that what being good at diplomacy truly entails? Just pretending? A question for the philosophers.

Upstairs, Sera shrieks.

"I don’t care about your stupid plant, piss off!"

* 

The way Trevelyan carries himself, the way he does not seem to really care one bit about what people say even as he keeps the veneer of diplomacy, makes Dorian bolder for a while. He stops looking over his shoulder when the Inquisitor visits his spot in the library, starts actively seeking him to talk about the arcane, the current situation, the Inquisition and Tevinter. The flirting seems to have subsided in intensity, but there’s still a twinkle in the Inquisitor’s eyes every time he teases Dorian, an undercurrent of something that sends shivers up his spine after every encounter. And now, when the conversations turn more serious, more… intimate in nature, Dorian can answer in kind instead of running for the hills like he has an Archdemon on his tail.

He still hates the countryside, but he doesn’t hate getting asked to accompany the Inquisitor and his entourage. With a start, he realizes the Inquisitor might be, for all intents and purposes, a _friend._

The thought alone makes snort rather inelegantly in the privacy of his quarters. Friends are… difficult to come by for him, to put it lightly. In Tevinter, most were drawn to him for his money and his magic, for his status and his body. In the Inquisition, people are more likely to spit at his feet than to offer their friendship. And to have the Inquisitor be- it’s- _stupid_. Even dangerous. He knows that; it’s in every sideways glance Mother Giselle sends his way when she walks by, in the watchful eyes of Leliana and the wrinkled brow in Madame de Fer’s face.

He feels selfish drinking in the attention the Inquisitor bestows upon him, and at the same time he revels in it. _Sod them all to the Black City and back_ , Dorian can’t help being interesting, can he?

People are noticing, though. And Dorian can’t help being aware of that.

It comes to his attention one day at Skyhold. The air is unnaturally warm (which means still freezing cold but with a little sunlight) and he ventures outside for the first time in days, not even bothering to grab a cloak. Opting to head for the battlements and not the courtyard where most of the Inquisition has gathered to soak in the good weather, he is greeted by the hunched form of Cole, who is sitting at the edge of wall in a really precarious position, lanky legs hanging dangerously, and overseeing whatever is happening below.

"Do be careful not to slip, or you’ll end up a splatter on the ground," he says, starting a conversation with Cole because it’s not often that people get to sneak up on him and not the other way around.

Cole turns and looks at him over his bony shoulder, clearly surprised. For a moment, he seems oddly touched by his - mostly joking- concern, and nods like he’s committing the instruction not to die to memory.

Dorian quashes the smile tugging at his lips like it’s a disgusting bug crawling out from under a bookcase, and leans on the parapet beside Cole.

"What has got you so enraptured on this fine day?" he asks, and his voice comes out oddly cheerful considering he’s already freezing his fine ass off.

Cole tilts his head, and Dorian notices a circle of people in the middle of the courtyard, surrounding Cassandra and the Inquisitor. They’re sparing, both clad in light armor, and the scene has drawn quite a lot of attention. Not really a fair fight, but Trevelyan seems to be holding his own pretty well for a mage. It’s strange seeing the Inquisitor in anything other than armored robes; weird, also, to see him wielding a sword instead of a staff, but he remembers that part of Trevelyan’s youth had been spent outside the Circle. In the field, he favors bladed staves like a barbarian. Handy, he says, to be able to cleave your opponent if they get to close.

I’d rather burn them to death, is always Dorian’s retort. Less messy.

“Playing at war. Real blades, but no blood spilled,” Cole tells him, and then adds, conspiratorially: “Like every war should be but isn’t.”

“I don’t know if it’s playing or not, but she’s giving it her all," Dorian comments, wincing in sympathy when the flat of Cassandra’s sword hits Trevelyan’s shin and he almost goes down with a yelp, as the crowd of onlookers cheers on.

He’d be worried in other circumstances, considering how Trevelyan had driven Cassandra up every single wall in Haven a few months back, but he can see the grin in her eyes even when her mouth and eyebrows are set in a severe line.

Cassandra and Trevelyan look good together -both tall, attractive, pleasingly symmetrical. He knows Cassandra is a captivating woman, even if he’s not interested in the least; not conventional, sure, but magnetic enough to make up for her complete lack of charm, and he knows the Inquisitor thinks so too. They’d be an easy romance, predictable but epic, the kind Varric could write about in a book that nobles in Orlais would buy by the thousands.

He shakes his head and focuses on the Inquisitor, who is now facing his way, sweating and gasping but bright eyed and happy as he’s ever seen him. Dorian’s mouth goes dry embarrassingly fast and, well, Iron Bull is down there ogling, is he not? He can do it too, he thinks, and he’s so enraptured by the sight that he barely hears Cole speaking.

"Frustrating, infuriating, inspiring, like all those heroes in books but real, true, close enough to touch, everything we sought after and nothing like that at all," he starts, voice lilting and soft, eyes far away. "Quick on his feet but he limps sometimes, terrible like a snowstorm, she knows, though, she notices where his eyes wander - drawn to magic and fire and skin a few shades darker. _If you are sure, Inquisitor, but are you really?_ "

Dorian pales, so suddenly and so quickly that for a moment he feels faint.

"...Dorian?" Cole asks carefully, coming back from his creepy mind-invasion thing, in a very uncommon moment of empathy.

Dorian turns on his heel and leaves Cole sitting there with the ridiculous hat obscuring his concerned face, biting his cracked lip like he wants to draw blood.

* 

It is nice to have it confirmed but also very much _not_. Knowing that people were noticing was unnerving, but to hear it spoken aloud (well, not technically spoken, but _still_ ) makes him want to shut himself in the Undercroft and stay there until Corypheus is dealt with. He tries to put it out of his mind, and mostly succeeds for better part of the day. That is, until the Inquisitor – freshly bathed, smelling of soap and with a pinkish hue to his tanned skin– drops by and tries to strike conversation.

"Cole says he’s upset you," he says, not beating about the proverbial bush, because apparently when you have a world to save, you can forget tact. "Please say you are not angry with him so he can stop the epic sulkfest we’re all enduring."

"I am not angry," he sighs, sinking into his chair, and feels the coming headache like a stampeding elephant. 

"That’s grand," the Inquisitor replies, and now Dorian notices he’s practically bouncing on his toes. "You should tell him that after I show you something."

Dorian gulps, because apparently a remote fortress in the middle of nowhere is no place to have a day to himself, and sighs.

"Didn’t Cassandra exhaust you enough?” he mutters under his breath, as he considers whether to stand up now or pretend to be uninterested a little longer.

"So you _were_ there!" Trevelyan says immediately, a small smile on his scarred lips. "Bull said he saw you watching from the battlements."

 _Bull should buy a shirt and stuff it in his mouth,_ he thinks _._ Dorian prepares to say something, anything ( _The crowd was noisier than the demons coming out of a rift. You were the one parading around indecently where everyone could see. This is a free keep, is it not?_ ), when Trevelyan grabs him by the arm and drags him gently but with purpose towards the stairs.

"Come on now, you'll like this, I promise. I’ll kidnap you if I have you."

Dorian gulps again. Loudly.

"The Herald seen dragging the big bad Magister to dark corners? People will talk " he says, breathless, his heart beating double time. With a belated pang, he wonders why he's arguing. 

"So?" replies the Inquisitor without stopping, mouth quirked, his hand still clasped around his arm, and as he lets himself be dragged Dorian remembers what Cole had said once about the Inquisitor. _Like counting birds against the sun._

When Dorian forgets to reply, though, Trevelyan stops at the beginning of the crooked stairs, nearly causing Dorian to stumble stupidly, and he drops his hand slowly. His open expression has suddenly turned so serious that Dorian wonders what he’s missed.

"Sorry," he says, stepping back, and Dorian blinks. "That was unfair of me. You have every right to be worried about rumors and aspersions. Just because I… Nevermind."

Dorian opens his mouth, deeply troubled "Wait-"

"We'll speak later," says the Inquisitor, and he turns around and walks down the stairs like his robe's caught fire.

He leaves a befuddled Dorian standing at the entrance of the library like an idiot, the warmth of his marked hand a phantom on his elbow.

When he makes his way to his private corner again, Leliana’s red head pokes out of the banister of the upper floor, her hood down and her expression inscrutable.

"That was painful to listen to, Dorian."

"Stop cawing and get back to your birds," he snaps, and all but crumbles on his leather chair like a puppet with cut strings.

*

The next time he sees Trevelyan is a week after that, and before he can think about apologizing there is a letter in his hands, and they’re trembling, _trembling,_ **trembling** _._

 


	2. the torn down, the experts at the fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian used to be smooth and eloquent and, most importantly, perceptive. And apparently he is not anymore, because in his journey to self-acceptance (hah!) and peace of mind (double ironic hah!), it seems he’s actually going backwards in terms of social graces.
> 
> That’s a cheery thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to thank everyone that commented, left kudos and read this mess of a fic. I’ll have you know I created this super secret account because I was sort of embarrassed of my writing, so seeing mutuals leaving kudos on the fic has been a hoot. I will maybe link to my tumblr at some point, but for the moment I’m happy to be incognito.
> 
> And well, it’ll be four chapters because I'm a lying liar who lies, but in my defense I did warn you guys. It is also still written by a non native speaker at 2am (this time the awesome ashers_kiss gave it a look, but I rushed her so don't blame her for any mistakes), so don’t forget that either.
> 
> Quick notes: 
> 
> 1\. I’ve kept it vague, but my Warden was a female Surana, if anyone wants to keep it in mind. 
> 
> 2\. I have tried to keep my Inquisitor vague too, but there’s only so much you can do without mentioning specific things about their appearance and it might become more difficult to do in the future. So, if someone wants to know how this Inquisitor looks, [here you go](http://imgur.com/xMZHi4S). His scars didn’t render for some reason, but his face is actually kind of a mess (and those tattoos are big mistake but hey, we own it.)
> 
> 3\. I'm sorry, I can't keep things short.

 

Dorian is a prodigy in the way that most rich, noble boys are: talent, as meager as it may be, gets systematically cultivated by the best tutors, books and free time money can afford.

Of course, _prodigy_ is the preferred word used in Tevinter when people are talking about their children. _Prodigy_ means talent is in your ancestry, running in your family like blood. _Prodigy_ is meant to separate you from the rest, from those who are not born perfect and skilled.

But Dorian knows that what he is isn’t a prodigy, but an investment. One that went bad.

(Dorian will say this at some point in front of a jug of ale, gesturing wildly, hair in disarray and voice way too loud for the present company. Varric will ask if he can use it as the start of one of the chapters of his new book, and he will find himself bathed in alcohol after hearing as many curses in Tevene as he did when Fenris stepped on a broken bottle that one time.

The insensitive _ass_.)

*

The tentative distance Dorian and the Inquisitor have kept during the past week becomes moot when they decide to march to Redcliffe to meet this… ' _retainer_ '. Varric and Cassandra are to travel with them, but they often stay behind bickering like an old married couple and leaving him to ride next to the Inquisitor, so he can’t count on them to keep the uncomfortable tension at bay. Dorian’s not too worried, though, because he suspects the journey will go by in a blur. He’s too wired, too worried and angry, to really register time and social awkwardness as he should.

"And what, pray tell, did you tell Mother Giselle when she tried to get rid of me in a most insidious manner?" Dorian thinks to ask as they ready the horses the next morning at first light, to fill the silence until the galloping can drown his thoughts.

"Pardon?" Trevelyan asks distractedly as he saddles his mount.

To the untrained eye, the Inquisitor looks thoughtful and solemn, but Dorian knows he is not a morning person and his aloofness just means he hasn’t fully waken up.

"Mother Giselle," he repeats, the cheery tone more difficult to keep by the second. "The letter was addressed to her, and the goal was to get me to meet the retainer unwittingly. So, what did you say when presented with such treachery?"

It’s embarrassing to admit, but there’s nothing casual about the question. He’s spent the restless night daydreaming about Trevelyan’s cheeks going red with rage and his voice dropping a few octaves, about his placid expression turning into a grimace of distaste at the thought of betraying Dorian’s trust and about him making a dramatic exit, leaving Giselle open-mouthed and shamefaced in the middle of the Great Hall.

Yes, yes, _judge a man, whatever_. Dorian doesn’t know what else to think about that doesn’t fill him with impending dread, so inconsequential daydreaming it is.

However, dramatic fantasies aside, "Oh, I lied to her" is what the Inquisitor says instead, no hint of regret or shame in his voice and it’s so unexpected that Dorian’s lips quirk of their own volition. 

"You told her you would _deceive me_? Truly?" he asks, eyebrows rising, just to get a clearer confession.

"I did," the Herald replies, still somewhat lost in thought, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The quirk in Dorian's mouth becomes a smile embarrassingly fast, and some of his despair ebbs.

"Lying to Revered Mothers? For shame, Herald of Andraste. _For shame_."

Trevelyan, diplomatic to the point of being a remorseless hypocrite, smiles way too bashfully for someone who lies to religious figures with surprising ease.

"I didn't want to risk that this retainer would just pop up in Skyhold unannounced if they knew you were aware of the surprise meeting," he explains, getting on his horse. "If you decided not to go, I didn’t want Mother Giselle to know."

Quite a lot of thought went into that strategy. So much that Dorian feels something twist inside his chest, grateful and ashamed, and doesn’t untangle until they hit the road and leave Skyhold behind.

*

The meeting with his father doesn’t go well, which is as unexpected as Bull not fitting into a shirt. Trevelyan is a comforting but ultimately useless presence at his side all the way through, bearing witness to the pathetic exchange like a silent ruler preparing to deal judgement.

That is, until he decides to be an inappropriate _ass_ about it and asks for clarification, which Dorian provides as crassly as he can, just to see his father’s face fall.

But when his father actually tries to defend himself and insinuates that there is a relationship between Inquisitor and him, Dorian sees red. He doesn’t recall what he says, the way he vehemently denies the relationship and lashes out, but what he knows is that years of grief come pouring out, creep out, see the sun, and Maker, that must be an ugly sight to see.

The Inquisitor keeps his mouth shut this time, but when he sees Dorian brace himself on the bar of the tavern, his legs suddenly weak and shaking after all the anger has left him, he walks to his side and casually stands tall between his father and him, shielding his view of the man in a very deliberate movement that Dorian would appreciate if he weren’t so tired.

"Say the word and we go," he says, with a voice carefully blank.

It takes a moment for Dorian to notice, because Trevelyan looks as calm as ever, but beneath the relaxed features there’s an undercurrent of unrest in the Inquisitor’s face. For a terrifying moment, he thinks that the scene he’s making him endure and the truths revealed there are angering him, that he’s disgusted at being taken for Dorian’s lover or something like that. But Dorian knows this man and cruel he is not, so he won't do him the disservice of thinking him so.

He turns to the door, intent on leaving, but waits one moment too long and his father gets a word in. And Dorian loathes it but he hesitates, mourning the man he thought his father was, yearning for trust that will never exist again.

In the end, he decides to stay, and hates himself for it just a little bit.

"I’ll be right outside," Trevelyan says, and squeezes his arm reassuringly before turning and closing the door behind him. Dorian swallows and nods, and turns to face Lord Pavus.

*

They make their way out of Redcliffe in absolute silence, and when they meet with Cassandra and Varric, they know not to pry. His head is swimming and he feels like he should be crying, but his eyes are completely dry.

They spend most of the way back to their camp closing rifts and helping refugees, because apparently when people are hungry, they don’t care if the Inquisitor should be focusing on finding a way to kill an ancient darkspawn abomination, so they ask for help anyway. Dorian aids the ill, helps gather blankets, tracks a lost hunter and provides potions for the local healer, and that keeps his mind off things for a while.

That night, he sits at the edge of camp, almost too far from the fire to really feel its warmth, and considers turning in early when Trevelyan appears by his side and hands him a bottle of well aged whiskey, before getting back to requisitions and maps.

Dorian doesn’t ask where it comes from, because he’s seen Trevelyan find bottles in very strange places, and he decides that tonight he’d rather have oblivion than his health.

He’s drunk quite a lot of it when the Inquisitor returns.

"May I sit?" the Inquisitor asks, eyes bright and warm, voice polite like he’s asking some Antivan diplomat if he would like tea before the negotiations.

"Be my guest," Dorian answers, after taking another swing of the bottle, his throat burning like he’s swallowed fire.

Trevelyan sits close to him, and takes the bottle when it’s offered. Cassandra is already turning in, and Varric is smoking with his back to the fire. Neither look at them.

He knows why Trevelyan is there, silent, waiting. Dorian finds himself not caring about appearing needy, this time. Trevelyan’s been privy to his lowest moments at this point; what’s a little more shame to help paint a whole picture?

"He says we’re alike. Too much pride."

He notices Trevelyan hasn’t drunk from the bottle, but instead has set it aside, out of his reach. He leans forward to get it, because it’s been that sort of day, but the the Inquisitor speaks first.

"Well, he has a lot of nerve to say that," he snarls, mouth set and voice louder and snappier than usual. "Your father is _scum._ "

Dorian’s hand freezes halfway to the bottle, and he turns to look at Trevelyan, stunned. He is speechless for a moment at the sudden outburst, so unlike the mighty Inquisitor, until he guffaws stupidly, not quite meaning to, the sound hoarse and pathetic to his ears.

"You’ve been _dying_ to say that, haven’t you?" 

"Since we met him at Redcliffe,” he confesses, conspiratorially. “I figured it wouldn’t be appropriate to just blurt it to his face."

"Maybe not appropriate, but I won’t lie; I would have _loved_ to see that," he says, and finds himself smiling slightly. "Always good to keep the Magistrate humble."

"Well, next time I will be sure to start with that."

_Next time._

"There _won’t_ be a next time," he promises vehemently, all humor suddenly forgotten. "I refuse to make you a witness to all the pathetic plot twists in my ridiculous life. I shan’t abuse of your generosity anymore."

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Trevelyan finds the cork of the bottle and closes it. “This was only a quick detour.”

Dorian huffs, because he wanted more whiskey and because Trevelyan’s eyes glint by the fire and they’re positively ridiculous. _He’s_ ridiculous. Dorian’s probably drunk way too much already, because he’s zoned out and hasn’t noticed that Trevelyan has put his hand on his elbow, like he did a week ago at the library.

"Are you alright?"

This, Dorian thinks, is a man who is on his way to control nations. He has a mage army, troops and assassins at his disposal and an Archdemon to slay. And this man is inquiring after him. Like he’s just as important as everything else on his plate.

He shouldn’t have the time to do that. Shouldn’t have the inclination. Dorian shouldn’t open himself to it, should just snort and deflect like he’s done since before he fully understood just how much his father thought he was disgracing the family name.

But he is weak and "No. Not really," is what comes out and Maker, his head hurts like he’s been drinking for hours straight. “I just wonder what you might think of me now, after the display I made you endure.”

Trevelyan doesn’t seem to pick up on the turmoil on his head, though. Instead, his hand shoots up and rests on the back of Dorian’s neck, impossibly warm against his clammy skin.

"You’ve been so brave," he says, sincere and sad.

And it’s too much. Dorian almost but not quite sobs at that, but reigns himself in just in time and just shudders.

"The things you say," he chuckles, humorless and pained, and lifts his head to look at Trevelyan.

The Inquisitor smiles at him right back, affection so plain and clear on his eyes that Dorian's face burns, and he’s so close, can count the freckles on his tanned skin, the number of tiny cuts on his jaw, could touch and trace the scar that marks his lip if he so wished and, oh, _Maker_ -

"Let’s go,” Trevelyan says, and his hand drops from Dorian’s neck to his back. “You’ll catch your death here, it’s so cold.”

He helps Dorian stand up, ushers him to his tent, bids him goodnight and retires himself.

And that is that.

*

Alright, no, that is actually _not_ ‘that’. It is never just ‘that’. But to Dorian, that seemed to be ‘that’ at the time, even if it was much more, because ‘that’ marks a before and after in his relationship with the Inquisitor so that ‘that’ was actually so much more than ‘that’. Hah, that sounds funny.

(Dorian is probably never drinking bottles the Inquisitor finds in abandoned warehouses again.) 

*

Thing is, Dorian can swear on the birthright he sold to make coin that back in Tevinter he had a _reputation_.

Not among the general nobility (oh, he had a reputation alright, the kind that drove his father to blood magic, but that’s not the one he means), but among those… like him. Some men, the kind that had done _this_ before and knew who to talk to about it, actively looked for him during droll parties and balls. Seduction and subtlety were well honed tools for him, tools he used with the precision of a surgeon.

Unfortunately, Dorian has either hit his head one too many times against Cassandra’s breastplate (it happened only once but he’s never ever living it down, if the twinkle in Varric’s eyes was anything to go by) or his prowess is strongly geographically related, because this is like going back to puberty, to lanky arms and legs, to fumbling in the dark and being, in all honesty, an immature and pathetic failure.

Dorian used to be smooth and eloquent and, most importantly, perceptive. And apparently he is not anymore, because in his journey to self-acceptance (hah!) and peace of mind (double ironic hah!), it seems he’s actually going backwards in terms of social graces.

That’s a cheery thought.

(This thought has a point. He’s getting there.)

*

He doesn’t notice right away, because his head is still at that tavern and conversation and stays there for entire days. He writes a few letters to his father, but what starts as polite but cold missives turns into angry drivels written in messy strokes of ink, so he decides to quit while he’s ahead and forget about sending word to his family for a while.

Someday, maybe, it’ll be good to have a Magister contact in the Imperium. Someday, maybe, it’ll be nice to have a father again. But we won't wish for it, won't even dream of it for the time being. He's done trusting, done forgiving, done _hoping_.

(He’s had exactly one encounter with Cole after the fact, and it has gone something like this:

“You’re sad, Dorian.”

“ _Shoo_.” 

He is _so_ not going down the creepy mind trick road again, thank you.)

But that is neither here nor there. The problem is that the Inquisitor is avoiding him and that Dorian doesn’t notice until a whole week has gone by.

It’s not like the Inquisitor is being obvious about it, because the Inquisitor is not obvious about _anything_ : he still asks him to come along often, still drops by the library to chat briefly, still treats Dorian with the utmost respect. But there are differences, things that no one but him would notice. 

The Inquisitor does not linger at the library anymore, when before he stayed a solid hour reading beside him. He walks past his table at the tavern, when before he always stopped if he saw Dorian there and sat with him so he didn’t have to drink alone. He asks the same three or four courteous questions he asks everyone, when before he dropped by his corner before handling samples to Helsima, so he could ask for his opinion first and engage him in fruitless but entertaining debates.

Embarrassingly specific details, all things considered, but Dorian can’t help being an intelligent and well read scholar who remembers all kinds of things, useless as they may be.

Even so, he chooses to believe it’s all in his head until one cold night in Emprise du Lion, when Dorian sits away from the group and the Inquisitor sees him, waves and retires without approaching him first, dragging his bad leg and leaving a tell-tale trail in the snow.

It’s so strange and worrisome that, in a moment of petty weakness, he regrets going without Cole’s insight. Then he scoffs to himself because he is an _adult_ , an Imperial Altus, and as such he can go without the misguided advice of a spirit turned ghost turned human. He will solve this on his own time, and thanks to his own wiles, which are, he thinks, pretty excellent if he says so himself (and he does).

It’s a week into this new arrangement when he decides to intercept Trevelyan in the Great Hall, where he’ll be hard-pressed to escape if he wants to keep up the facade of normalcy. Sure, it’s petty to use the knowledge he’s gleaned from becoming closer to the Inquisitor in these past months to trap him into a social situation, but the man can be as slippery as an eel and Dorian is done waiting for him to slip up.

 _Big problems, big fireballs,_ as he says to justify the fact that he does sometimes go _a little bit_ _overboard, yes, thank you Vivienne, I saw that,_ _no I don’t need a Circle instructor do stop gloating dear it’s unbecoming_ when he conjures fire.

He’s timed it perfectly too; waited for the war table session to be called off to while mingling with the nobles that are always peppering the Hall hoping to get a glimpse of the famed Inquisitor. So when Trevelyan comes out of Josephine’s office, Cullen in tow, he very casually crosses paths with him, like he hasn’t been standing there like an idiot for half an hour.

Appearing flippant and disinterested is a complex and subtle art, and Dorian tries not to think about the stupidity of such an endeavor.

“Inquisitor! What a surprise to see you here,” he says when the Inquisitor comes face to face with him, arms extending in a grand gesture.

If Dorian has appearing casual down to an art, Trevelyan has elevated it to a precise science, because there is no tell in his expression that betrays the fact that he has spent a whole week avoiding Dorian like he has. No wonder his element of choice is ice.

“Yes, how very quaint to find me here,” is what he says, seemingly amused. “Right between my working station and my quarters.”

“Well, one never knows where to find you these days, your Worship. You have become quite elusive.”

Behind the Inquisitor, Cullen raises his brows, noticing that there is more to this exchange than meets the eye. People underestimate Cullen for his rather… blunt approach, but he’s hardly slow, which is why he lingers behind the Inquisitor, choosing not to step in the conversation with a rather tactful caution.

“You know how it is,” smiles the Inquisitor, good-naturedly, but he’s looking over Dorian’s shoulder as he says it, like he’s looking for someone. “Organizations to run, assassinations to arrange, bridges to build and burn...”

“Of course,” says Dorian, extremely deferential, because two can play at this game. “I was just wondering… What did you intend to show me a fortnight ago?”

 _That_ catches the Inquisitor’s attention. His eyes focus on Dorian again, at least. He pauses for a moment, appearing to think on it, brows furrowed in concentration, and Dorian has the bizarre, overwhelming feeling that he is being lied to.

Trevelyan knows perfectly well what he’s talking about, and he’s pretending not to. If Dorian had any doubts over whether the cold shoulder he’s been getting was related to that moment, they’re gone now.

"Oh,” Finally, the Inquisitor snaps his fingers, apparently overcome with the memory. “I found the cellar of Skyhold. It had some ancient wine, and I wanted to show it to you. It was no big deal, but I was quite surprised to stumble upon it by accident and I wanted you to see it.”

Judging by the way Cullen’s face scrunches up in confusion, he didn’t know about a magical lost cellar either. Dorian swallows despite himself, thinking back to the Inquisitor’s excitement when he came in with the news, which he obviously only intended to share with him only to be rebuffed.

"That sounds delightful,” Dorian replies, voice slightly more sincere this time around. “I’d love to see it."

“Of course," Trevelyan says, all guileless eyes and placid expression. He points at a door on the right, a sad little thing he'd never glanced twice at. "Downstairs, turn right, left, left and down some other stairs. Pick anything you want, I'm sure no one will miss it. Don’t tell Josephine, though. Ah, Leliana, there you are.”

Dorian stands, frozen, as Trevelyan walks past him decidedly. Cullen follows the Inquisitor, who’s now walking briskly to match Leliana’s stride, and glances at Dorian worriedly while he does so. 

He'd always laughed at Trevelyan’s deflecting techniques, but they had never been aimed at Dorian himself. He has a moment of deep sympathy for Chancellor Roderick, Vivienne, Cassandra, and anyone else who's had to deal with this side of the Inquisitor, before he sets aside both irritation and regret and gets back to his books for the day. 

* 

Cole drops by again that same afternoon, and Dorian flees so fast he almost runs into Solas and has to brace himself on the painted wall of his makeshift study. The _still wet_ painted wall. Solas is thoroughly pissed off in his old man way, and Dorian presses his bright blue hands on the elf’s mahogany table in retaliation.

All in all, it’s a miserable day.

*

While Dorian complains about his presence in Skyhold being unwanted, it would be remiss of him to say he’s practically all alone when he’s benched, despite how well that goes for his lone, dangerous Vint mage image. He’s somehow justified, though, considering his friendship with Cullen had been -and still is- a big surprise, and a gratifying one at that.

Cullen is the kind of person who should not want to be seen next to Dorian if not strictly necessary: Chantry raised, ex templar, all work, work, work. But if there is something Dorian is learning to like, it’s being proven wrong. 

“Dorian. You _do_ realize I am watching you, right?”

Dorian’s hand stills before it reaches the board, his long fingers tracing the top of his tower like he meant to pet the piece instead of move it out of turn, and grins innocently at Cullen.

“So many people do, Commander,” he says, shrugging. “It’s difficult to keep track.”

Cullen groans, like he does every time he’s too lazy to come up with a witty reply (Dorian knows he can, he’s seen it), and finally moves the pawn he’d been eying for ten minutes, silently chiding him for refusing to wait like a good adversary.

The Commander always suggests the garden for their impromptu chess matches, where Mother Giselle spends her days more often than not. Dorian still doesn’t know if it’s a declaration, Cullen’s way of saying he trusts him implicitly and isn’t ashamed of their cordial relationship, or if Southern men are just abysmal at politics in general and he doesn’t even notice what he’s doing.

 _Dog lords_ , they call Fereldans in the Imperium. He suspects any Fereldan would take that as a compliment, and after the time he’s spent here, Dorian would find it difficult to mock.

(Dorian has never flirted with Cullen; not outright at least, because the descriptor ‘Southern Templar’ did not bode well for a Tevinter Altus like himself. However, he suspects the only thing he’d have gotten out of the fearsome Commander of the Inquisition forces would’ve been a blush and a stuttery and hasty retreat. Which is, they tell him, what the Inquisitor got out of being fresh with him. Cute, really.)

Thing is, he’s come to dearly appreciate Cullen’s dry wit and accepting nature, so unlike anyone else with his background, and, most importantly, his preference for silence, which he always lets Dorian fill with inconsequential banter until his competitive side surfaces. He’s positive Cullen is vehemently averse to subterfuge outside of battle and for that reason, Dorian usually lets his guard drop when they’re together.

That is why, when Cullen seems to feel a lull in the normal conversation and decides, very selflessly, that this time he should be the one to fill it, Dorian thinks nothing of it.

“I’ve never seen you play with the Inquisitor,” Cullen starts, innocuously enough.

“Didn’t know he played,” he says, honestly, because he didn’t. He does seem the type, though, with his calm demeanor and his cold calculation. Then the pieces click, and he realizes Trevelyan’s been playing chess with Cullen too. “Be honest, Commander. I’m the better player, aren’t I?”

Cullen chuckles at that, and talks as Dorian moves his queen to the center of the board in a bold but calculated move that has Cullen arching a brow. “The Inquisitor is a skilled strategist too. Tends to play on the offensive, unguarded, but panics easily and switches tactics mid game.”

The content of what Cullen says is innocent on paper, but it sounds like a very practiced set of sentences spoken aloud. This is how Dorian realizes way too late into the game that he’s been cleverly ambushed. Just not on the chessboard.

His gaze snaps to Cullen’s face, who is watching his reaction carefully over the board. When he notices the shift in Dorian’s position, he knows he’s been made, and speaks again, placating, the game forgotten.

“I know you might think me a brute, but I’m not blind. I know…” he hesitates, uncomfortable, and falters. “... _things_ ”

Is it him or is the air getting chillier by the second? Dorian straightens his back unwittingly, but notices and then forces himself to lean back on the chair in a very controlled movement, willing his face into total stillness.

Much to his chagrin, he realizes he’s nervous. Perhaps even more so than he’d normally be talking about these matters with someone who he didn’t respect as much as Cullen. His hands grip the armrests of his chair, knuckles quickly turning white, bracing himself for… something bad.

“My, my, Commander. _Things_. How very mysterious. What do you think there is to know?” he asks, his voice colder than it’s ever been with Cullen.

Out of instinct, he searches for any chantry people out of the corner of his eye, anyone that might be listening in, anyone Cullen may want to expose him to.

Cullen notices his unrest and hostile air, and ducks his head like he’s being chastised. That, however, doesn’t stop him but for an instant: “ _I think_ I am not qualified to give advice on these matters. Maker knows I… Nevermind,” he says, some color creeping up his cheeks. “I don’t even understand what brought this all on, but I do know how things are now and my advice would be to... talk to him. Because I may not know about… but I know about regret and things gone unsaid.”

His voice trails off, sadness and regret gripping it so hard it chokes, and there’s a story there but Dorian dares not ask.

He knows he should treasure the genuine kindness and pained sincerity in Cullen’s voice when it’s offered so freely, awkward pauses and all, knowing it’s not mockery or a ploy to put Dorian on the spot - but he can’t help being flippant about it and the biting words come tumbling out before he can stop them.

“Talk to him. _Really_ ,” he scoffs, arching his brows mockingly, and smirking without humor. “Grand advice, Commander. Truly, your strategic mind is a wonder to behold.”

It’s a low blow, to allude to Cullen’s military expertise when the loss of Haven is still so fresh in the Commander’s mind, and Dorian winces after he says it, but he feels like a raw nerve, exposed and hurting, and he really would like to hurt back.

However, Cullen just tilts his head to the side and, to his credit, seems terribly nonplussed by his chilly retort and malicious streak as he wordlessly moves an unassuming piece to the side, ignoring Dorian’s glare.

“You can laugh all you want,” is Cullen’s reply. “But check mate.”

Dorian’s icy smirk freezes on his lips and his eyes drop to the board. Cullen is now smiling at him over a king on its dying breath.

“I moved your pieces three times!”

“Maybe you should heed the advice of this strategic mind then, don’t you think?” says Cullen, as he hits Dorian’s king with a gloved finger and the piece topples, lifeless, on the board. 

* 

 _Too much pride_ , his father had said, and just for that he refuses to outright disregard Cullen’s advice, tempting as it is to forget about the conversation altogether. He has never had someone else comment on any of his… entanglements, as he’d kept Felix as far away from the sordid details of his life as he was able to and the rest of his… _friends_ were mostly vaguely queasy about that aspect of his eccentric persona. But this place is different, Cullen is different, and so he thinks long and hard on the exchange and about why Trevelyan would be avoiding him with such vehemence. He has a vague idea, but cannot pinpoint the exact reason, so he formulates a plan.

He takes Trevelyan’s advice and goes to the cellar. Never let it be said that Dorian doesn’t know how to turn the tables around.

* 

It's a gamble, really. The hand that grips the bottle is clammy and he’s uncertain in a way that he’s never been, even though seduction is his territory and flirting comes as naturally to him as breathing. But this feels different, somehow. Stranger and heavier.

He knocks on the door leading to the Inquisitor’s quarters with his free hand, thankful for the disarray the Grand Hall is in due to the incoming refugees and scouts reporting about Crestwood’s runaway Mayor, because nobody pays him much mind. When there’s no response, he goes ahead and opens the door, which leads him to a corridor under construction, dusty and ruined, and some crooked stairs that seem to go on forever.

Dorian raises his brows bemusedly, wondering how Trevelyan can live in such squalor, but the next door he reaches atop of the stairs is more ornate, the mahogany polished and clean, and he knocks on it. This time there’s a response; Dorian hears someone walk towards the door and then the hinges creak and it’s open.

The inside of the room looks warm and inviting, but his attention is on the Inquisitor himself. Trevelyan is out of his normal Skyhold attire, instead clad in a black undershirt and dark breeches that Dorian carefully does not inspect. He widens his eyes when he realizes who is at his door, clearly surprised to see him standing there, and Dorian relishes seeing his control slip, even if it’s just for a moment.

“I thought nobody was home,” he says, mock-chiding.

“Sorry, downsides to having two doors,” Trevelyan apologizes bashfully, a tiny smile already tugging at the corners of his lips. Then he sees the bottle in Dorian’s hand, and his eyes crinkle further. "I see you've found the cellar.”

“I did, but no thanks to your frankly abhorrent directions,” he replies, shaking the bottle around and hearing the wine slosh. “Right, left, left, down? Do you even know how to hold cutlery?”

“I humbly apologize for my bizarre sense of direction,” Trevelyan shrugs on a dark longcoat and adjusts the cuffs distractedly. “And for what probably are awful table manners.”

Dorian is distracted enough by the spectacle of the Inquisitor dressing himself that he misses the fact that he’s preparing himself to leave until he approaches the door where Dorian is still standing with every intention of slithering past him.

“Someplace to be?”

"Helping the relocation effort for Hinterlands refugees, I’m afraid. You can stay here, though, the room is really warm now,” he says, nodding at his desk and a frankly opulent leather chair. “I'll leave you to it."

Trevelyan makes it as if to walk past him, but Dorian is ready now, and he stands firmly in the middle of the doorway, effectively halting the Inquisitor’s advance.

“May I inquire as to why you are avoiding me, first?”

That stills Trevelyan, who steps back and stares at him, tilting his head to the side. The room feels no longer warm.

“What?”

Dorian’s hand closes more firmly on the bottle, like it’s his lifeline. In any other circumstances, he’d find humor in that comparison. 

“As I’ve been reliably informed by your companions, I can be kind of … an _ass_ sometimes,” he starts, infusing his voice with enough humor to appear as if he doesn’t agree with that, even though he… sort of does. “If I’ve done something to offend…”

Trevelyan eyes him carefully, brows furrowed. With a little jolt, he steps back and gestures at Dorian to come in, realizing the doorway and his dark spiral staircase is no place to have this conversation.

“You did nothing wrong, Dorian. I’m sorry you felt like I was cross with you,” he says, sounding appeasing and gratingly diplomatic. Still the careful, Wicked Grace-Face Trevelyan. 

“And yet I’m being punished. Where is, pray tell, the justice in that?”

“Punished?” Trevelyan parrots, and now there’s something more genuine in his disbelief. “I’ve done nothing of the sort!”

“Oh, spare me!” scoffs Dorian, all pretense of flippancy long forgotten. “You know what you’ve been doing.”

That is Dorian’s way of saying _‘please don’t ask me what you’ve been doing because although very clear to me, they’re very specific little grievances and it will be very embarrassing for me to recount them out loud as it will mean admitting how pathetic I am being in my hunger for your attention’._

Or, to sum up, _‘please don’t’._

Thankfully, it seems the Inquisitor has exhausted his tolerance for charades, because he lets his broad shoulders drop slightly and his mouth twists in a barely-there grimace of frustration. His free hand almost comes up to his face, to touch the scar on his neck, no doubt, but stops before reaching it and Maker; ‘ _embarrassingly specific details Dorian notices, part two: case in point’._

“I just thought…. I thought you were uncomfortable to be seen with me.”

Well, that certainly gets Dorian out of his shamefaced introspection.

Silence rings in the room, louder than a thousand bells. The idea is so preposterous, he thinks for a moment that obviously he must’ve not heard right. But yes, he did hear that, if Trevelyan’s carefully blank expression is anything to go by and _that is ridiculous_.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, finally, his arms gesturing widely as if he was empty-handed.

Seeing it swing around dangerously, Trevelyan reaches for the bottle in his hands and sets it aside on his work desk, which is messier than he’d have thought the Inquisitor could keep it. “I don’t think it is at all, actually.”

His fingers close in a fist now that he’s not gripping the wine, and he finds himself somewhat irritated by the unbreakable calm in the Inquisitor’s every move even after dropping a proverbial jar of bees at Dorian’s feet.

“Surely you haven’t missed the way I respond to your… _flirting_ ,“ he says while Trevelyan has his back to him, trying to leave the bottle in a place where it won’t topple. “I mean, you… _We_ are not exactly subtle.”

This is the closest they’ve come to naming what’s between them, but it’s true enough. Whatever Dorian told himself to justify his doubts, Trevelyan had always been upfront about his… proclivities. Which happened to go in all sorts of interesting directions, from Bull to Cassandra to Cullen to Josephine, but that is neither here nor there.

Yes, Dorian has doubted. A lot. But in the Imperium, it pays to be careful about who you proposition.

Or maybe he’s misjudged. Again.

He’s considering that when Trevelyan turns to him again, this time with his all consuming attention focused solely on Dorian. He looks serene enough, but now there’s an undercurrent of heat beneath his voice.

 “Yes, you flirt back when I’m being _cheeky_ ,” Trevelyan concedes, jumping in the conversation like a very polite raging wyvern. “Never when I’m trying to be… You know,” he looks frustrated now, like he wants this conversation to be over sooner rather than later. “I figured you just weren’t that interested.”

Dorian doesn’t think he has to remind _him_ of that, but it surely can’t hurt even if it comes out condescending. “You know I bed men, right?”

“So you’d bed any man that was interested?” Trevelyan retorts, and now he looks actually irritated. If the situation weren’t so delicate, he’d relish the fact that he is the one to break through Trevelyan’s facade but, well. He’d prefer it being any other emotion, really. “I suspected you liked men, then yes, the meeting with your father confirmed it, but that just made me figure the problem was me.”

“Problem? What problem?”

“Don’t play with me, Dorian. I’ve known rejection before, and you are special enough to me to want to keep your friendship if I can’t have your favor. Just, don’t worry about it. I will deal with it on my own time.”

_Did he just say favor?_

“Did you just say favor?”

Trevelyan just goes on as if Dorian had not interrupted. 

“You avoid being near me when others look at us,” he starts, as if enumerating. “You refuse to discuss certain matters with me. You never seek me out directly. I can take a hint. I’m not a fool, whatever Vivienne thinks of me.”

Oh, this is wrong, this is so very wrong. “I was not-“

“I did think you were interested, before, but when I saw that you weren’t I tried to be your friend, but then that seemed too much for you too,” he keeps his eyes on Dorian’s face, but his shoulders are dropping more and more, and his hand comes up to his bad leg, as if preparing himself for it to fail him. “I figured I had made you too uncomfortable with my overtures. I apologize, Dorian. Truly.”

The realization that Trevelyan is nervous comes to him like a boulder rolling down a hill and falling on his head. It’s such a bizarre concept, that a man who has stared down dragons and demons and _Chantry Mothers_ could be nervous talking to him, that it finally spurs him into action. He needs to get this conversation back on track, by whatever means necessary. So he plays his best and only card.

“You set aside all the Tevinter wine in the cellar in a crate.”

Trevelyan blinks, confused by the sudden change of topic.

"It was you, correct?"

“Well, yes. I thought I'd prepare it for you.”

“But in that same crate, there was also a Marcher wine, Ostwick's, from where you hail if I’m not mistaken,” he soldiers on, forcing himself to keep going now that he can, his throat so dry he’s seriously considering uncorking that sodding bottle. “Did you prepare it for you and then forget to take it?"

Trevelyan turns his head to look at his desk, recognizes the bottle and, for the first time since Dorian's known him, Trevelyan actually, honest-to-god _blushes_. Dorian has to do a double take, thinking for a moment that he is hallucinating, and his mouth hangs open before he can help it.

Of course that seems to rattle the Inquisitor all the more, because he actually starts _fidgeting_.

"I… Well, I wanted to. _You know_." 

"I do not, in fact, know," says Dorian, intrigued and fascinated in equal measure, watching the heat creep up Trevelyan’s cheeks like it’s the fade tearing open in the sky. 

Trevelyan notices, and scowls. “Don’t be cruel, Dorian. It’s unbecoming.”

When the Inquisitor makes as if to withdraw from him, Dorian’s hand shoots up on instinct, grabbing Trevelyan’s forearm before he can retreat. The effect is instantaneous, and Trevelyan stills under his touch like Dorian’s paralyzed him with a glyph.

Trevelyan’s other hand comes up to his neck and rubs it, in a gesture that reminds Dorian strongly of Cullen. “I just wanted to show you something from my city. Share it. With you. So you’d. Get to know the place where I was born? It made sense at the time.”

The strange pauses are music to Dorian’s ears, but that means staying silent while the Inquisitor flounders. He looks sad and apologetic and something in Dorian’s chest _burns_ because this is _real, it is real, let it be real._

“I know I should be more professional,” the mighty Inquisitor says, like he’s wronged him “but I spent half of my life in the Circle and I wasn’t prepared for leadership and the burdens of it. I hope this doesn’t affect our friendship.”

Dorian tilts his head, as if pondering the answer.

 Well, I, for one, hope it _does_ affect it,” is his final answer, and he wets his lips. “In all the ways that matter.”

And he leans forward and closes the distance between them. 

There’s a moment of nerve-wracking hesitation in Trevelyan’s stance; a choked gasp, tense muscles, unmoving lips that make Dorian almost withdraw and backtrack like it’s going out of style. But the moment passes, and the mighty Inquisitor is all but melting into him, his hands coming up to Dorian’s head, cupping his jaw, running his hands through his hair and suddenly holding Trevelyan is like holding lightning and he intended to keep it chaste but he is a weak, weak man and Trevelyan pants into the kiss when Dorian bites his lip and he thinks, _Maker, yes, please, yes._

When they separate, the Inquisitor looks like he’s gone a few rounds against a dragon and lost. His lips are red and kiss-swollen, and he looks  dazed and overwhelmed. That does wonders for his ego.

“Up to your standards?” Dorian asks, confidently, because it always pays to hear it said aloud.

The grin on Trevelyan’s face is small but blinding in its intensity.

“Do that again and there will be actual applause,” he says against Dorian’s lips and he can’t help it; he laughs, light and childlike, like he hasn’t laughed in a long time. 

*

“I was actually _really_ supposed to help the relocation effort.”

“Go on, then. I do enjoy watching you leave, your Worship.”

“Maxwell will do just fine." 

* 

Later that day, at the library, he finds out that the Inquisitor gestures wildly when he’s excited about a conversation topic and tipsy to boot, that he likes to prop up his bad leg on the armrests of any chair he sits on and that he laughs silently while he kisses, breathless and enthusiastic, and to Dorian he tastes like vertigo, like wind and great heights and gravity and fear and fascination.

Dorian also finds out Trevelyan gets a kick out of being called _Inquisitor_ in less than proper situations but his eyes light up when he calls him Maxwell, and he treasures that information like it’s the mapped path to the Black City itself.

*

“Thanks for the wine,” says Cullen, a few days later, in the gardens. “I’m no expert, but I like it better than Orlesian.”

“Tevinter does everything better than Orlais,” Dorian boasts, because they do. Intrigue and assassinations included, but those make for terrible _'Thank you for your frankly vague and awkward advice'_ gifts. “Ostwick’s is pretty decent too.”

“I can’t say I have tried it,” he says, “Is there any Ostwick wine in the cellar?”

Dorian’s hand hovers over his queen on the board.

“Not anymore.”

*

Things don’t last because this is Dorian Pavus, who is more likely to die rolling down a hill while chased by blighted bears and _on fire_ than of old age.

 

It has to be established, though, that this is how most of Dorian’s stories _end_ too - not on fire and eaten by bears, mind you, but at this point in the narrative. Things don’t usually have time to go downhill for him, because he knows to cut them short to avoid just that.

Dorian does no such thing, this time. Varric would call it _‘good eye for drama’._

But what does Varric know, anyway.

*

It starts, as most things do, with a rumor.

 

 


End file.
